


Drabbles in Time

by KaiahAurora



Series: Random Drabbles [3]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: ALL the tags, Angst probably, Drabble Collection, Gen, Some Humor, and some awful poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaiahAurora/pseuds/KaiahAurora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of very short drabbles I made to test my writing muscles. Longer and more well-thought-out stories, such as Mirror, Mirror and William, will be put in the series but not this story. I don't know. They were all made in under half-an-hour and unedited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. View of the World Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Words: 538  
> Warnings: death, negative world view

 

A Person's View of the World May Change Over Time

The world is a wonderful place. My mama embraces me as she sings a lullaby, and we watch the sun being swallowed by the sea in a blaze of colour. I jump up in the morning as papa comes home, and he sweeps me off my feet, a smile on his face. My brother gives me shells and pretty stones he finds on the beach. On long afternoons we run through the surf, kicking up sand with not a care in the world. Nana makes us good food to eat when mama and papa are away, and smiles when we feed the peas to Brad, the cat that lives down the street. The days are long and short at the same time, full of life, and slipping by so quickly I barely even notice when it's time to sleep. We laugh as a family. We sing and dance and play. We love. We love everything that is given to us, because it is what makes us alive.

The world is a horrible place. My mother cries at the kitchen table when she thinks I've gone to sleep. The mornings bring hard work and a long day of waiting, wondering if my father will finally come home. My brother hasn't written to us in almost four months. I fear the day that a police or army officer will come to our door, telling us to meet the box draped in the flag of our nation when it comes home from the war. Sometimes I visit my grandmother's grave, trying to remember the happy times we had together, and not when I had to remind her of her own name. As I walk down the grey streets, I see a small tuft of orange fur sticking from a dumpster, the only remainders of a once living friend. The world seems to have lost its colour, becoming a little darker with each slowly passing day. I am broken. I can barely breathe. I feel nothing. I see everything that the world has taken from me, in an attempt to make me grow.

The world is all I am given, and it is enough. Everyone has sorrows and strife, but I now know how to live with them. I have learned how to embrace each passing day, examining the beauty of simply being alive. I used to think that the world was a perfect place, and then I thought it was ending. I now know that the world is simply the world. It has kind and caring people, and those who cannot spare time for anyone but themselves. It has the wonder of creation, the fascination of life, and the memory of loss that is joined with the passing of time. I know that the world is not a perfect place. It has wonder and horror just as everything does. But the world is what I was given. It gave me a family to love me, and to teach me about defeat. It gave me friends to help me grow, and to show me that beings can move on. The world gave me hope, and sadness, and knowledge, and life. The world gave me the world, and that is all I need.


	2. Unlikely Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words: 1,219  
> Warnings: bodily harm, scars, hopelessness, thoughts of suicide, really cheesy ending

Happiness Can be Found in Unlikely Circumstances

I opened my eyes in a darkened room, only a small amount of moonlight seeping through the bars on my cell window. The ground was cold and the air sharp - it was still mid-winter, and they had taken my cloak and shoes. I don't know why they captured me. Our clans were supposed to be in an alliance. Now I was far from home, probably in the middle of their mountain ranges, with no hope of ever getting back.

As I looked around me, taking in the small stone room and single wooden door that marked my only separation from my captors, I remembered how I came to be there. The desert, formed under the shadow of the mountain range, was the barrier between our clans. My home lay at its edge, where my family carved out a meagre living from the remnants of the old forest that sustained our people. I had been out trying to find a young lamb who had been separated from the herd. I knew it was dangerous to go out at night. Sandstorms could blow in without warning, and one could easily get lost in the dust. But crops were failing and we were barely scraping by as it was.

Darsanians were known for moving silently through the dust. They were always the sand people, more adapted to living in the barren wasteland of the Shandarin Desert than the N'tenian, my people. They came without warning, and took my screaming from where I clutched to the dead carcass of the little lost lamb. And then I was brought here, to this cold prison cell where I awaited whatever my captors deigned to give me. I could be tortured for information, but as a farm girl, I knew that my uses were few. More likely I would be killed immediately, or worse, taken as a slave.

It was hours before I knew for sure that I was not alone. One of the guards opened my door and yelled at me in the strange, rough tongue of the mountains. He left me with a broken wrist and a sliver of bread for my daily meal. I knew I would not last long in this cage.

N'tenian are strange creatures, it is true, but one thing we could always do was find an escape. We are people of the rivers and the trees, not meant to be tied down to the ground and suffocated like rats in a trap. So when the guard came back the next day, he found my cell empty, the bars of my windows broken, and only a few drops of blood to show that I had ever been there.

Out in the open my luck had come to an end. Darsanians were good hunters on the desert plains, but deadly in the mountains. Steep slopes of rocks and boulders shielded them from their prey, and yet the same stones tripped me and tore into my legs and hands whenever I fell. I knew that it would only be a matter of time until they found me. With no sun in the sky, I could not find my way back across the dust to my farm. I would never go home.

Eventually I took shelter in a dent in the cliff face, too shallow to be called a cave, but at least it offered some shelter from the biting wind. It was only a few hours until dawn, and yet already I could see the amber glow on the rocks that marked my pursuers' approach. In my last few minutes, I chose to decide whether dying by their hand or my own would be the better fate. Instead, Darrus Meneth, the mighty river or life, decided to take me down a different path. An angel came from the heavens, and delivered me to safety.

Well, actually, a straggly young boy fell off the cliff near where my shelter lay, and decided that the same alcove where I lay would be a good place for him to hide. He stared at me in shock immediately following his graceful falling on my legs. Without words we both knew that we could not be found. He took in my dark brown skin and braided hair, setting me apart from the red hides of the mountain people. And I looked over his emaciated form and broken nails, proving that he was in even more dire needs than I.

He was the one who led me up the mountain, hid me in the caverns he called home and fed me the little food he had saved for the winter. He bandaged my wrist and gave me clothes to cover my bare back. In return, I built him a fire from the few twigs the sparse trees of the mountains provided. I caught him some rabbits and brought him some berries, the poor excuses for the kind that flourished in my forest home. For the next few nights we saved each other, hiding from the mountain people as we both grew stronger.

Our tongues could not speak the same language, but still we understood each other enough to know that we were allies, comrades against the harshness that the world had provided. He knew that I had been captured and taken from my home, had obviously seen enough N'tenian pass through the mountains to know that they never returned. And I knew that he had either been abandoned or run away, if the marks of abuse on his back or the twisting break of one arm was enough to go by. Either way, he was an outcast who had escaped, just the same as I. This was all I needed to know.

Slowly, and painfully, we learned to trust each other, to rely on each other, and to know each other. It was almost a full moon after my capture that we decided to take the journey across the sand, together. I cried when I saw my farm again, and though he could not understand my words, he knew by my face that we were home. My mother screamed when she saw me, running out and hugging me so tightly that we both fell to the ground. I my father and brother and little sister all surrounded me, their words garbled by their tears and barely letting me speak. I took my companion by the hand and led him into my family, and he understood enough to know that he was accepted into our lives.

The sun was shining high in the sky when we finally went inside. Enough of the sheep had been sold so that we could eat a hearty meal without too much worry for the future. I did not know how much our lives would change. I did not know if the Darsanian would return, or my new little brother would be happy abandoning his home in the mountains. But I did now that I was together with my family once again.

That evening I hugged my little brother close. He smiled and rested his head against my shoulder. The fire blazed in the hearth and I smiled.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words strange in his mouth, but I understood.

We had escaped. We were safe. We were free. We were home.


	3. Dancing Through Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word: 359  
> Warnings: death, like as a concept? I dunno

Her feet dance lightly upon the ground, her laughter carelessly floats through the air. But then she slows, and then a pause. This is not a familiar place. It is a dream world, neither known nor new. A frown darkens her young face. Her innocence is seeping away into the black.

A light shines through the dark; soft, inviting. She follows it willingly, her lips gracing upwards and joy shining in her eyes. A scene emerges from the mists, shapes and shadows rising and bending before her. She cannot see what lies ahead, but she is curious still. This land invites her, and she freely receives.

The light is there before her. It beckons, calling, and she is almost there. The voice of a beautiful song whispers in her ear. She is almost there.

A hand falls upon her shoulder. Something is drawing her back. She turns around and sees a careworn face, bearing the troubles she had so nearly left behind.

"Please, papa, I want to see. I need to go."

"Someday," his voice sounds softly. "Someday you will, but not yet, my child."

And she is drawn away from the light, the soft glow that so readily waits. The strong hand begins to tremble, and the blackness is everywhere. It surrounds them, envelops them, and still he does not let go.

"Papa, why can I not go? It hurts me to follow you. Please, let me go."

His eyes shine with tears, unseen by the one who so trustingly follows. Before them lies a harsh and cruel world, ready to rip away her innocence and bliss. Her gladness will fade to mourning and her untroubled eyes will soon grow dark. Above all else he wishes to spare her this, but his selfish need prevents him. There is still a spark that cannot die, one that he knows will one day warm her. So he does not heed her pleas, ever more desperate as the darkness grows.

"One day," he calls back to her, fading into the distance. "One day you will return. And when you do, I hope that I will be the one to greet you."


	4. Imdependence and Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These next two chapters are a bit different. The first one is from one point of view, and the second is a much shorter one from another point of view. Please enjoy!
> 
> Words: 700  
> Warnings: None

With Independence Comes Increased Responsibility

...and with that I was on my own. I had my own kingdom, my own land, my own people, and I had absolutely no idea what to do. It was tradition - the first born inherited the home kingdom, while the second-born was handed the wonderful little land of Olisan on a silver platter, complete with marshlands and dark forests, sand dunes and the strangest people ever to walk this earth. Kara was always the smart one, it made sense that she would get the greater responsability of Polendil, even though she was only some twenty minutes older than I. Princess Kara, master hunter, linguist, artist, and strategist, and Prince Kyre, somewhat good at maths and mildly competent. It wasn't much of a competition, really.

It was just, Olisan was so dreary. It has the approximate population of a poultry farm, and the people were as bland as the countryside. There was little wild game, few domesticated animals that could live off the marshy grasses, and ground that was either too wet to cultivate crops or as barren as my aunt Hilda. Even the King's Castle was tasteless, featuring illiterate servants and threat-bare carpets lining broken stone walls. For generations, Olisan had been the cast-off of the seven lands, the little appendix of an otherwise mighty nation. No one wanted to start a bloodline there, and Polendil's heirs only got to sit their royal behinds on the golden throne because of our sheer proximity to the place.

My advisor, Nora Broxley, had been the only constant my family had known from the lands to the West. She had governed both my aunt and then my uncle, when the second-born had been decapitated in a nasty quarrel over some caught squirrels. When my sister and I came of age, my parents had given my uncle the kind offer of either continuing his reign of Olisan, or retiring to Polendil. He left this place so quickly he took the last bit of intelligence with him. Nora Broxley was kindly enough, to be sure, but quizzical hooting noises did not a royal advisor make. She knew the lay of the land, the names of the people and how to treat their farming beasts, but other than a direct translator from peasant to abandoned king, she had little use.

My first order of king was to appoint the royal council. Seeing as I knew no one other than old Nora in this Godforsaken place, I made the diplomatic decision to keep my uncle's old people. Luckily for me, that meant I got to meet them. Wonderful. There were twelve of them in total, and they were charming enough. To my great delight, I found out that one of them even knew how to read! The first council meeting was certainly an interesting experience, to say the least. Nora Broxley played a key role in restating the council's drawling tones into something more understandable, and I felt that we did rather well in coming to an understanding. The bad thing was, these people were actually making me feel good about myself - they made me feel intelligent. That was never a good thing.

And yet I was terrified. For the day after I had settled in, I had a kingdom to run, no matter how small or dreary it may be. For all my griping I truly did not want to let these people down. Or rather, I didn't want to kill them off in mass numbers due to my incompetence. Nora Broxley had explained that I didn't have to do much, just keep an eye on things and sort out a few minor disputes, but even that seemed insurmountable... and unappealing. I was useless, I knew that, but if I was going to govern these people I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to teach the children how to read and make sure that everyone had enough to eat. I wanted to create doctors and midwives and lawyers and judges. I wanted to take this sorry excuse for a kingdom and turn it into a home. I wanted to be a good king. And that, above else, was the worst idea of all.


	5. Different Points of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's uber short, and from Nora's point of view.
> 
> Words: 252  
> Warnings: None

Different Points of View Make Life Interesting

Prince Kyre seemed like a good lad. A bit quieter than his uncle, true, and maybe a tad less sure of himself, but at least he was trying. Good old King Dinus, for all his intelligences, seemed to be less invested in his people during his reign as he was in his wine glass. I welcomed him into his new home and once he was settled in, showed him the council. Drunkards and lechers, all of them, and the poor boy had no idea. The entire first meeting they were mumbling on about things that had nothing to do with the situation at hand, and I was left to try and make the people this lad would rely on seem like decent human beings.

After that meeting I prayed to the Gods that this king would be different. I prayed that he would see us for what we were, not as useless mongrels wandering around in the muck. We may not have famous paintings on every wall, or squires sporting gilded teacups, but we are survivors. When half of Polendil was lost to the red plague, we sent them food and blankets. When the Arzans attacked from the East, we sent out people to defend our neighbours. I was not a blind woman. I knew that people thought the sun set in Olisan in more ways than one. But we would last through the night. We were strong, we were dedicated - we were a family, and we deserved a good king.


	6. Pretty Stone Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one isn't a story, but a poem. A really dark, nasty poem about the destruction of the Earth. This is why I shouldn't write poetry. Someone stop me.
> 
> Warnings: allegories for rape and self-harm  
> Words: 100

Pretty Stone Garden

Her garden was a barren desert,

Devoid of life and joy.

Then, a single flower bloomed,

And then her garden grew.

Creatures roamed her garden green,

Thriving, living, dancing,

And then they learned to speak to her,

And then they learned to kill.

Stones were growing in her garden,

Green replaced by grey.

Smoke and flame and cloud and pain

Sounding through the day.

Jagged scars across her arms,

Clothes ripped and skin was torn,

Her garden had been turned to stone

And her body ruined.

"How pretty her garden was,"

And now the Earth is dead.


	7. Impending Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short story from three years ago, when I was in my TFioS phase, complete with cancer and dying. At least I made it a lot more gay.
> 
> Words: 1,000  
> Warnings: imminent death, illness/fatal illness

The days are starting to blur together. My life consists entirely of cold pizza and drawn curtains. I unplugged the phone a week ago, and I'm sure my mother's about to instigate an inquiry. Knowing that she's worried about me only makes it worse. Sure, I might drop dead at any moment, but that's not something hovering over me can fix.

There's a knock at the door and I push myself to my feet, dragging the Oxygen Cart named Henry behind me.

"Give me free stuff or go away."

"Honey, it's me."

Great, the parental unit has arrived. I open the door reluctantly, and she gives me an immediate once-over.

"I'm moving in," she announces, pushing past me.

I can see how much she's avoiding even touching me – frailty and all that.

"I see that you've been staying away from your... Kate."

"Call her my ex, mom. We're not getting back together."

"Can't she give it a try?"

"What, necrophilia?"

"Taris! Don't say that."

"She's dating a corpse, mom."

She doesn't have an answer to that. Instead, she moves into the kitchen, making a noise of distress at my Archway of Pizza Boxes. I retreat to my bedroom and, needing to blow off steam, call Riley.

"Hey, dead girl," he greets me.

"Guess whose mother just moved in?"

"Wow, that sucks."

"I need to go out shopping. The milk's gone solid and I can't tell what's potato salad and what's blueberry pie."

"Want backup?"

"Yes, please."

I don't go out anymore. The looks get tiring, the questions make me uncomfortable, and the sympathy encourages homicide. I wrap a scarf firmly around my head and put on a long coat. Screw March, it's still cold, and the layers help disguise my wasted form. Right, like the Oxygen Cart named Henry doesn't clue them in to something being wrong.

I barely make it to the cereal section before they start.

"When were you diagnosed?" asks an old lady who's probably lost a few friends already.

"What type is it?" asks a disgustingly healthy and fit man.

"How long do you have?" asks a teen with a large amount of mascara and absurdly high heels.

No one asks what I like to do. No one even asks my name. This is how it is. Strangers want to know everything about the illness. Relatives avoid the topic like the plague.

I meet Riley in the cookie isle. He doesn't offer to help me, doesn't mention it when I stop for a breather. He just asks his usual question.

"How're you today, beautiful?"

I used to be "beautiful", whatever that means. But anyone who says that now is fooling themselves. Now I'm just me, slowly being absorbed by the disease which has come to define me.

"The mother is cleaning me out."

"Can't she wait until you're stiff for that?"

"She thinks it's a health risk to build forts out of food."

"Right, like that's a factor."

I buy the stuff and we get out of there. I'm not allowed to drive, so I walk, and even with Riley there I still feel uncomfortable. I wish that people would just treat me the same as everyone else. I'm not normal – who is, really? – but I'm still a person and would appreciate it if someone recognized that. I want to be seen as me, not as disease walking.

We can't get home soon enough.

"You look scarily thoughtful," Riley says as I find my door keys.

"I'm considering taking up smoking."

He laughs and we go inside. My mother instantly appears.

"Riley," she greets.

"Karen," he responds.

"Don't call me Karen."

"We're going to hang for a bit, okay?" I ask, heading for my room, "We haven't seen each other in three whole days."

I don't know why I feel I have to justify myself to her. I'm an adult and living in my own apartment, even if it is currently inhabited by the mother. I guess it's the "losing the child" syndrome rubbing off on me.

We sit on my bed, which I dutifully cleared of clothes before leaving. Now, they're on the floor with my candy wrappers and discarded manuscripts. As I look around, I can't help but frown. I've let myself go. Suddenly, I sit bolt upright in realization. It's happened.

"What's wrong?" Riley asks, concerned despite himself.

"Oh, my god," I breathe, "I'm actually becoming my disease."

"Huh?"

"I'm losing it! I've stopped living because I'm dying, and now I'm locking myself in my room every day and my mother has had to come bail me out!"

"I don't get it."

"Riley, I think I'm giving up!"

He's quiet for a whole thirty seconds. Then, he stands up purposefully, picks up the inuksuk I built out of donut boxes and, without a word, shoves them in the garbage. He ruins my pop can Eiffel tower, tears down my candy wrapper Mona Lisa, and even goes so far as to break apart my used gumball snowman.

"Mind telling me what you're doing?"

Without looking at me, he takes the overflowing garbage can and walks out of my room.

"Karen," he shouts, "We're cleaning up the house, then your daughter's going to go on a holiday, and she's going to live again!"

"Could you repeat that?"

"Taris is going to live until she dies. Now, come on, we have a pile of crap to move."

I laugh quietly and get to my feet. I glance at the Oxygen Cart named Henry for a moment, then pat him gently and wheel him after me. Henry's a part of me, now, but I'm sure as hell not going to stop living for that. As I walk into the kitchen and see my mother and my friend cleaning up the empty carcasses of a few months of neglect, I quietly go to the closet and pull out a broom.

"Come on," I say to them, gesturing to the Arch of Pizza Boxes, "We've got work to do."


End file.
